Chapter 33 The Blood of Discord

Chapter 33 The Blood of Discord


_\[SYSTEM\]_
⚠️ VITALITY: 12% (CRITICAL STATE: IMMINENT COLLAPSE).
⚠️ ALERT: Unstable heart rate. Adrenaline at maximum.
⚠️ STATUS: Catherine Draven’s Protection detected (Temporary Effect: 30 seconds).

The heat of Catherine’s blood still hung in the air. Roses and iron. For a few seconds it smothered the stench of Old Noctaria—mildew, rot, centuries of spilled blood baked into stone. Eric dragged himself into the vent shaft. His muscles weren’t just screaming. They were tearing. Each movement felt like pulling barbed wire through his joints.

John Black Fang, Gilbert slung over his shoulder like he weighed nothing, leapt in after him. Regenerated didn’t mean healed. It meant functional. John’s wounds were closed, but his eyes were still haunted. He moved like a predator that knew it had already died once tonight.

Below them, in the tunnel, Catherine’s blood chains were breaking. Hairline cracks spread across the crimson links as the Enforcer tested them. No sound. No effort. Just inevitability. The silence of those porcelain masks was worse than any war cry. It was the silence of a grave already dug.

“Faster! Shaft hits surface near the old university quarter,” Gilbert rasped. His skin had gone gray, the color of wet ash. “They won’t risk an open scene before the Meeting.”

\### The Alpha’s Fall

They crawled through metal darkness for what felt like hours. Time stretched. Eric’s consciousness flickered. Every heartbeat was a hammer in his skull, a funeral bell counting down. His Diabolus blood and Draven blood were at war in his veins. Not metaphorical. Literal. He could feel them clashing, burning, rewriting each other. It was agony no human nervous system was built to hold.

The shaft ended.

They spilled out into a narrow alley behind a massive gothic building: The Faculty of Literature, University of Maurice. Gargoyles watched them from above, stone faces indifferent to blood and monsters.

They hit the cold asphalt hard. John was up first, golden eyes sweeping the shadows, nostrils flaring. He set Gilbert down against a dumpster, almost gently. Then he turned to Eric. His expression was unreadable. Not gratitude. Not hate. Something older. Wolf law. Debt and blood.

“You saved me, kid,” John growled. The words sounded like they cost him. “But you’ve got Draven eyes now. If my people see you like that, they’ll rip you apart before you can say Clifford’s name.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eric spat. He wiped his face. His hand came away red. His eyes—he could feel them—burned scarlet. “They have Naya. And Catherine… she knows where.”

\### The Shadow of the Meeting

Gilbert’s hand shot out and locked around Eric’s wrist. For a dying man, his grip was iron.

“Eric, listen.” Each word was a struggle. “The Meeting tomorrow… it’s not a party anymore. It’s a tribunal.”

“The Council’s going to use Naya as bait,” Eric said. He didn’t need Gilbert to finish. He could see it. “Force me to show what I am. In front of every clan.”

_\[SYSTEM: NEW MAIN QUEST\]_
OBJECTIVE: Infiltrate the University of Maurice Meeting.
MISSION: Rescue Naya Black Fang and confront Nelson Lane.
REWARD: Diabolus Blood Awakening (15%) & Data on Clifford Lane.
FAILURE: Permanent Death & Eradication of Clan Vance.

Eric stared at the university building. Stone, ivy, stained glass. He remembered Alexis. He remembered being Brentley Carter, orphan, nobody, waiting tables and dreaming of stories that weren’t his. That life was a ghost now. Another man’s memory.

“John, take Gilbert to the Báthory safehouse,” Eric said. His voice had changed. It wasn’t a request. It was an order. Alpha to Alpha. “I need to get ready. If I’m walking into that pit, I’m not going as prey.”

\### The Silent Pact

John hesitated. Then he nodded once. Respect, grudging and real. He hauled Gilbert up. Gilbert didn’t fight. He just looked at Eric, and in his eyes was everything he couldn’t say. Pride. Terror. Love. Regret.

They vanished into the shadows, leaving Eric alone in the alley.

His vision blurred. The adrenaline crash hit like a wall. He slid down the brick, legs giving out. The cold from the asphalt seeped into his bones. He could hear his heartbeat slowing. Too slow.

5%.

A shadow stretched across the alley.

A door creaked. The service entrance to the faculty building. A figure stepped out, carrying a tray.

“Eric? Is… is that really you?”

Alexis.

The tray hit the ground. Coffee splashed. Her eyes went wide, then wider, taking in the blood, the torn clothes, the way his eyes burned red in the dark. She didn’t scream. She froze. Like a deer seeing a wolf that used to be a man she knew.

Eric tried to speak. Tried to say her name. Nothing came out.

Then the air changed.

It got colder. Heavier. The scent of roses and iron came back, but stronger. Possessive.

“Don’t touch him, human.”

The voice came from above. Velvet and frost.

Catherine Draven stood on the edge of the roof, silhouette cut from the moonlight. Her dress was black silk, moving like liquid. Her violet eyes weren’t looking at Alexis. They were locked on Eric. And in them was something that wasn’t love. Wasn’t hate. Was ownership.

“He already belongs to House Draven.”

Alexis stumbled back, her face white. She looked at Eric, betrayal and fear warring in her expression. Then at Catherine. Then back to Eric.

Eric tried to stand. His body refused. The last of his strength was gone. The world narrowed to a pinpoint. Catherine’s eyes. Alexis’s face. The blood on his hands.

_\[STATUS\]_
VITALITY: 5% (COLLAPSE IN 3… 2… 1…)

The last thing he saw before the dark took him was Catherine leaping from the roof. Not falling. Floating. Descending like a queen coming to claim her property.

And the last thing he heard was Alexis whispering his name. Not Eric. Not Brentley.

“Monster.”

Then nothing.

\---

Old Noctaria – Báthory Safehouse – Minutes Later

Gilbert coughed blood onto the stone floor. The safehouse was a tomb. Candles burned low, casting shadows on walls covered in old tapestries. Báthory crest. A wolf and a rose, intertwined, bleeding.

John paced. Four steps. Turn. Four steps. Turn. Caged energy.

“He’s not dead,” Gilbert said. It wasn’t hope. It was fact. “A Diabolus-Draven hybrid doesn’t die that easy. But Catherine…”

“Catherine what?” John snapped. “She saved him? Or claimed him?”

“Both,” Gilbert said. “That’s the problem.”

He pulled Eunice’s urn closer. His fingers traced the ceramic. “The Meeting… Nelson Lane will be there. He’ll have Naya. He’ll have the Council at his back. And he’ll have proof. Eric’s eyes. His blood. Everything.”

“And Eric?” John said. “He’s got 5% vitality and a Draven leash around his neck.”

“He’s got more than that,” Gilbert said. His voice was stronger than it had been in hours. “He’s got Clifford’s rage. Eunice’s will. And now… Catherine’s interest.”

He looked at John. Really looked.

“Can you fight?”

John bared his teeth. “I died tonight. Coming back means I’m not done.”

“Good,” Gilbert said. “Because tomorrow, we don’t save Naya. We start a war.”

Outside, the bells of the University of Maurice tolled midnight. The Meeting was in twenty hours.

And somewhere in the city, Catherine Draven carried Eric’s unconscious body through the dark, her violet eyes calculating, her grip possessive, her plans already in motion.

The triangle had closed. Lover. Monster. Weapon.

And Noctaria would burn for it.